The Tale of Mrs Dubose
by isabellafae
Summary: Ever wonder what another character was thinking in To Kill A Mockingbird? This is the tale of Scout's prejudiced old neighbor, Mrs. Henry Dubose, in her final days.


**AN: Welcome to the Chapter 11 Rewrite from To Kill A Mockingbird. I own absolutely nothing, it's all Harper Lee's doing!**

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><p>As I feel my own life fading, my mind has started to work in reverse. Thinking of the future holds little appeal to me, seeing as I have none. I can't help but think of times when life seemed so much simpler. When there were good people and bad people and black and white people. Nothing was ever intertwined like it is today. These thoughts first came to me when my girl Jessie was reading me <em>The Maycomb Tribune<em> since my health no longer allowed me the comfort of my morning paper and a nice cup of tea.

"...and in the Robinson vs. State trial Mr. Finch is serving as the defense for Tom Robinson..." Jessie's voiced trailed off. I set down my china cup of Earl Grey on its matching tray set and tried to remember what had been read. Along with my body, my memory had been flickering in and out like a cheap radio. Some signals were stronger than others like the basic information the had been instilled in me from the very beginning of my life: my name, my age, and my place in life.

As a white lady there were certain things that were and were not allowed in your life. Opinions, such as the ones that went against what had been approved by society's finest, were never voiced under any circumstances. Corsets were to be worn every Sunday along with your best dress, which also must be starched and pressed to perfection, but were never to be spoken of for fear of being improper.

"You must always keep your composure," My mother said to me once, never even glancing away from her cross-stitching, "Never raise your voice above that of a gentle whisper." That was one infraction I had committed on a regular basis in my younger years and had relapsed in my old age. There was only one other major limitation to the conversation topics we ladies explored in our various gatherings and groups, and that was the Negroes. I was never quite certain when Negroes became so lowly in the world, but I knew better than to argue or question that which had been established in life.

They are like the honeybees that buzzed and hummed around my beloved flowers. They infect our lives with their own, but at a clearly set distance. If one were to get too close it is immediately swatted away. They work hard for the sweet honey we receive from their hives and when they sting the hand that steals it they will most certainly die. Perhaps this may seem unfair to the diplomatic few that think it appropriate to live with such people, but for me this is the life I have been born to. A true southern lady should never lower herself to the level of the Negroes.

"Atticus Finch?" I asked, trying my best to rifle through my memory and think of why that name sounded so familiar.

"Yes ma'am, Mr. Finch lives down the street . He's Miss Jean Louise's and Mr. Jeremy's daddy." Jessie said gently removing the tray from my crocheted covered lap. Breakfast in bed loses its appeal after three days of spilling tea on your favorite quilt. A hazy sense of recognition was blooming in my head.

Atticus Finch. Yes, he was that serious looking fellow, one of the few gentlemen left here in this newfangled, disrespectful world. He would always reply respectfully and eloquently to me while walking towards his home with those demonic children of his. Though this defending a Negro business is a risky thing to do, especially with the children being so young.

They could get the wrong idea about _those_ people.

My mind reached farther back to those little memories that had a bad habit of getting away from me. Jean Louise Finch, yes, she was that little ragamuffin child that wore dirt like face powder. Why any self respecting member of the female community would want to be covered in filth everyday is beyond me. If those two kept on the path they were on they would be just another nothing in the world. I think I might have mentioned that to her before when she and her brother come barreling down the street, not even bothering to properly greet ladies like myself, as if their mother never taught them any manners. That's when all the pieces clicked into place.

Mrs. Finch was one of the few people in this town full of busybodies and shut-ins that was, in my opinion, a true lady. There never was a kinder, lovelier person than Mrs. Finch. She was probably turning in her grave seeing her children run amok like they were. On the few days that I could go out onto my porch I would see them come past my house at least once or twice a day. I would wait patiently in my wheelchair for them to give me a polite 'Good afternoon.' but as expected from past observation, it never came. The closest I ever came was Jean-Louise shouting out a coarse, "Hey, Mrs. Dubose."

Honestly, where did this child get her manners, or lack thereof? I instantly corrected her, saying that 'Good afternoon Mrs. Dubose' was the proper way of addressing me. If her father or that Negro woman, Calliope, or whatever her name is, insisted on not teaching her any sort of etiquette I would have to be the one to take on that responsibility.

I never really had the chance for maternal instincts, being that I have no children. Or, at least, I don't think I do. The one thing I do remember very clearly is my husband, my dear Henry. He was the perfect match for me, everyone thought so, our parents included. We were married early, I was only seventeen at the time and he was eighteen or nineteen. We lived a good life together, of that I am certain.

My favorite thing about Henry was his melodious voice. The man wouldn't dare to sing a tune outside of Sunday hymns, but after a few years of persuasion I did finally get him to agree to read to me every night before we retired for the evening. His velvety voice would read me tales of great adventures, some more interesting than others, but all had a special place in my heart.

The other thing Henry enjoyed almost as much as reading was gardening, or for me do the gardening while he watched from the porch. Our flowers weren't anything fancy, but they were ours. After Henry died I kept the garden going, but it wasn't ever the same. I had realized how completely immersed in each we were, and although we had never had the children he wanted we were content. I had also realized that even without I would wake up each morning and have my entire day revolved completely around him, just as his day had always revolved around me. It was as if we lived in our own world.

I think that was when the pains started to come. They would come early in the morning when I remembered that he was no longer there to read the morning paper with me and help me with the crossword. They would fade in and out throughout the afternoon and then come back full force at night when I knew I would never get to hear him read to me of Robin Hood or a great chase between a whale and a disgruntled sea captain. Everything around me reminded me of him.

My final realization had hit me hard: I was alone. No one was here to care for me, or to hold me when I was frightened or angry. Sure I had a few Negroes working for me, but they wouldn't care for me, not like Henry did. If anything they would probably hope that I would die quickly so they could scavenge whatever money and valuables I had left like the filthy thieves they are.

The pains became so unbearable I turned to someone I had always believed could heal any sort of wounds, even the ones you couldn't see: my doctor. He gave me a new drug, morphine. It seemed like a godsend at the time, but now as I lay here in my bed not even able to function properly I see that it was nothing more than a curse. It was the worst kind of curse too, the kind you have brung upon yourself.

The morphine made the pains go away, but brought a new kind of hurt: addiction. I was out of control at one point, and any problems that arose in my life were remedied by more morphine. My life was passing me by in a drug induced blur. I remember catching myself in the hallway mirror after one of my doses and stopped dead.

I hardly recognized myself. My once slightly wrinkled skin had become shallow, pale and sunken. My eyes had lost that happy little sparkle that came to them whenever I heard my Henry call out for me, and had I truly saw myself as others had for I don't even know how long. I was a hag, and a hag dependent on drugs at that. Henry would never have stood for this, and neither would I. So I made a resolution right then and there. I would quit, cold turkey.

At first I didn't see much of a difference and I thought I had been cured, so self-controlled that I could do without any sort of medical help. How stupid I had been. My fits had become a regular occurrence nowadays, and surprisingly Jessie never showed an ounce of disdain for having to take care of someone like me. Probably was hoping that I would leave her my money, stupid girl.

As my mind sobered I was granted with new freedoms that had nothing to do with drugs. My opinions had been bitten back, held behind clenched teeth and swallowed like caster oil for too long. I was nearly a century old and coming down off of an addiction, I think I had earned the right to speak as much as I damn well pleased.

One day, when I was having one of my spiteful spells, I remember shouting at Jeremy Finch about how his daddy was nothing more than trash. Now to be perfectly honest I didn't dislike Atticus, but I figured that as long as I was made to be miserable someone else might as well know what it's like. I called him trash along with a few other choice phrases and it felt good, like I was literally spitting out the poison that had been festering inside me for so long. I can't recall all that was said but afterwards the boys face had turned an unsightly shade of crimson.

Apparently, something I had said must have struck quite a nerve in that boy because once I had woken up from another restless nap, I went out to the porch to find every one of my beautiful flowers mutilated into a green and white pulp. Since I was immobile at this point I did nothing, but sit patiently on my porch and wait. I wasn't entirely sure what I was waiting for, but when Jeremy Finch came shuffling up the street and up onto my porch, I decided this was the opportunity I had been hoping for.

"I believe this is your handiwork." I sniffed motioning to what was left of my flowers. He nodded, never making any attempt at eye contact. That would not do at all.

"Speak clearly boy, and look me in the eye when you speak." I said sternly. He reluctantly looked me dead in the face and awaited his sentence. Since death seemed to be a bit extreme and illegal, I settled for the next best thing.

"Since you seemed to have taken such an interest in my property perhaps you should put your energy to better use." I began, but had to stop because another coughing fit. Jessie, who had been trying to gather all of the remnants of my garden into a basket, looked up at me, silently asking if I needed her help. I waved her back to her work and turned my attention back to young Mr. Finch.

"I want you to go and help Jessie clean up that mess you made and then you may apologize." I said in between wheezes and pointed to where Jessie had gone back to working. He gave me a nod, but didn't dare speak. Smart boy. They took quite some time getting everything into a presentable state before he came shuffling back up to my place on the porch. I had had plenty of time to cook up a decent punishment for him during my wait. God had taken my Henry, and Jeremy Finch had taken my Snow-on-the-Mountain. It seemed that there was only one pleasure in life that was left.

"We're all finished Mrs. Dubose." He had taking a sudden interest in the porch steps beneath his feet while he spoke. I waited for the apology. He took what seemed like an absurd amount of time for pride swallowing, but he did finally manage an 'I'm very sorry,'. I wanted to shout at him some more, tell him that one little apology was nothing in comparison to all of the dignity I've had to forgo over the years, but I managed to keep my composure.

"I most certainly hope you are, young man, and to make sure this sort of incident never happens again I've decided to have you do something for me." I paused for a moment, making sure that one of my fits wouldn't stop my speech. "I've decided that everyday after school you will come here and read to me for a duration no longer than two hours a day."

His face was a mix between astonishment and hate, both were feelings I was well acquainted with.

"Read? To you? For how long?" He asked cautiously. I did a quick calculation in my head. I knew my days were numbered but I still had a few weeks left in me.

"A month would be sufficient I would think." I answered finally.

"A month!" Jeremy started to protest, but then stopped himself short. The look on my face must have been enough to make him think twice about being disrespectful yet again. He nodded and said 'Yes ma'am.' before trudging down off the porch steps.

"And I expect you to come here right after school, no dilly-dallying, you hear!" I shouted after him and watched as he all but sprinted for his house. That night I went to sleep for the first time with the greatest sense of anticipation for tomorrow's coming events.

As was our agreement, mainly my agreement, Jeremy was knocking at my door in the middle of the afternoon with that filthy little sister of his. I called for Jessie to let them both in. Maybe just by being around proper ladies would make Jean-Louise a bit more sociable.

"So you brought that dirty little sister of yours, did you?" was my greeting. The response I got surprised me. It was quiet, but still held conviction.

"My sister ain't dirty and I ain't scared of you."

It was refreshing and shocking to have someone speak to me in such a way, but I let it slide. "You may commence reading, Jeremy."

Both of them sat too far away and my ears were never going to catch a word that he read so I told them to move closer. The boy's voice wasn't nearly as strong as my Henry's nor as clear, but it did the trick. Not even five minutes after he had started into the first chapter of _Ivanhoe _I had drifted out of consciousness and into the world of no fits, coughs or morphine. A place where Henry was waiting for me. The only time I even bothered to speak was at the end of the two hours when I shooed them home. The routine went on for a little over a month mainly because this was the most restful sleep I had gotten in over twenty years.

Atticus had stopped by once and I made sure to mention to him what time it was and when the clock was set for. He was a smart man he could figure the rest out. Since I was getting more rest now, I was able to stay up for more of the actual reading. Of course, I didn't pay much attention. I had too many things that I wanted to say to that miserable looking boy at the end of my bed. I asked him about how I bet he wished he hadn't destroyed my flowers now and how they were starting to come back in, and how he would do things properly the next time he wanted something gone. He had the nerve to mumble at me like I was some sort of low-life. I instantly corrected him and told him that he shouldn't want to hold his head up, not with his daddy being what he is and all. More days past before I knew it was time to let go.

"That'll do, and that's all. Good day to you." I said and watched them leave my house for the last time.

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><p>Now I lay here in my brass bed, piled over with quilts, just waiting as I have done my entire life. I know that when I leave this world my name will fade just as my husband's did. My house will soon become someone else's and my beloved flowers will most likely perish in the Alabama sun. I will go out of this world beholden to nothing and nobody, having done nothing of great importance in my lifetime.<p>

Atticus Finch is here with me, and I had Jessie give him an old candy box with a single Snow-on-the-Mountain bloom in it for one Mr. Jeremy Finch. Maybe now he'll stay off of my lawn. I let my eyes rest for a moment and tell myself that it will only be for a moment, even though I know perfectly well that I'm lying.

I feel my self drift farther and farther apart from this world.

When I open my eyes I see the man I've loved more than my next breath and I hear the voice I had been desperate to hear for over twenty years now.

"_Hello Charlotte. You've kept me waiting for a while."_

"I know," I say smiling, "But I had a lot of things to say."

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><p><strong>AN: As a personal note I would like to add that I have absolutely no silimar views as Mrs. Dubose concerning African Americans or any other race for that matter! We are all equal in God's eyes and I try to live by that as a general rule. Hope you've all enjoyed and please leave a wuick comment about what you thought!<strong>


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